Home
by leavinghope
Summary: Still struggling with being reunited after three years apart, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson discuss the true meaning of home. (A continuation of the stories "Affection", "Press" and "Wonder", but can be read as a standalone.)


Sherlock Holmes sighed at the chaos of papers in front of him. He'd been seated at the table in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street for hours, certain that the clues he needed were hidden in these documents. He ran his hands through his curls and let out a growl of frustration. Footsteps on the stairs leading to the flat promised a welcome diversion.

"May I come in?"

Sherlock smiled at the sight of John Watson in the doorway. "You don't need to ask, John. Please, come in."

John took a tentative step into the room, set down his bag and removed his well-worn green coat. By the time John settled into his old chair, Sherlock had made a series of deductions about his friend. He walked across the room and picked up his violin. He glanced at John, who nodded.

Sherlock's eyes flickered back and forth as he flipped through the sheet music in his mind palace. He picked out his composition called "221B" and began to play. He heard a slight exhalation and noticed that John had closed his eyes. Sherlock then performed "Home" until John's shoulders relaxed. He drifted into "One" for his one best friend and matched the rhythm to John's breathing. He ended with "Forgiven" and as the last note faded away, Sherlock looked at John hopefully.

John opened his eyes and tilted his head towards Sherlock's chair. The detective took the hint and sat down, still holding his violin and bow. The two men sat in the quiet dusk-lit room. The silence was the most companionable that had been shared between them since Sherlock's return a mere handful of weeks before.

John took a deep breath. "Five times in the past two weeks, I have gotten off at the Baker Street station. Five times, I've packed up my bag and left the surgery to go home, intending to return to the flat I share with a wonderful woman, the woman that I plan to marry… I look forward to returning home, and I end up here."

As Sherlock opened his mouth to ask why John had never come up to the flat, John raised his hand to stop him.

"Please, just let me finish." He flexed his hand a few times before lowering it. "When you left, I could barely stand to be here. I couldn't live here. It didn't feel right with you gone. And never once, never even once, did I accidentally get off at this tube station instead of my own."

For this first time since he started talking, John looked Sherlock directly in the eyes.

"When did you become home to me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock heard the cost of that question**. **His John, always so brave, so honest. Sherlock owed him nothing less.

"Several times in these last three years, I wanted to send word to you that I was alive. Seems like I spent hours with my thumb hovering over the send button."

"Then why didn't you? Why didn't you trust me?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" asked Sherlock, bitterly. "That's the question you've been wanting to ask me all these weeks." He rose from his chair and paced the room, still holding on to his violin.

"I think it's a fair question."

Sherlock pointed his bow at him. "How can you even ask me that? You, who shot a man when we barely knew each other to save me. You, who threw yourself at Moriarty with snipers trained on the bomb vest you were wearing to save me. To save me, John."

Sherlock rushed his bow across the violin strings, making the instrument screech and John wince. Then the detective stopped his movements and gently placed the instrument in its case, his back to John.

"If I had told you that I was alive and you promised to keep it a secret, you know what I could trust you to do?"

John waited quietly.

Sherlock turned towards to his old flatmate."You would have done whatever was necessary."

The detective almost smiled at the familiar stubborn expression on his friend's face.

"You would have disappeared from the lives of your family and friends."

John met Sherlock's intense gaze.

"You would have burned the world down looking for me."

Sherlock walked towards John.

"To save me."

John tilted his head up to keep eye contact. "Yes."

Pacing, clutching at his hair, Sherlock growled. "That is why I could not tell you. Because you would have found me, I have no doubt. You would have found me, and I would not have been able to turn you way. Together, John. You and I, out there, tearing that web apart. It would have been glorious. It would have been the two of us, outnumbered and outgunned, and we would have loved every second of it."

Sherlock stopped in front of John's chair and whispered. "I trust you above all others." He crouched on his heels in front of John. "But all I could see when I closed my eyes was laser sights over your head, your heart." Sherlock gently placed his hands on John's knees. "I had to save you this time, don't you see?"

"You already saved me, Sherlock. The moment we met." His voice was rough as John spoke. "I walked into that lab a sad, damaged man who thought way too often about the gun hidden in my desk. But you didn't treat me like an object of pity." He raised one of Sherlock's hands to his lips, kissing it softly before returning it to his knee. "Or like a freak."

Sherlock closed his eyes against the unexpected tears that threatened to spill.

John cleared his throat. "You text me every morning to remind me you're alive." He brushed wayward curls away from Sherlock's brow. "But you need my response to reassure you that I'm alright, don't you?"

Sherlock was saved from admitting to that irrational urge by a faint rumbling noise. He sighed in relief and said, "John, I believe your stomach is trying to convince me that I should eat more."

He was rewarded by a giggle from John, who seemed glad for the mood to be alleviated. "I do recall that you were more likely to eat if you were picking food off of my plate. Do you even have any food in?"

"Mrs. Hudson has stocked our cupboards." Sherlock smirked, as he stood up, also thankful that the emotional tension had been broken. "She still won't go into the fridge."

"It's good to know that some things haven't changed." With a wistful sigh, John rose from his chair.

Sherlock surprised himself by grabbing John's shirtsleeve. He worried his lower lip, then asked, "Dinner?"

John hesitated, clearly torn. "No, thanks. I promised… I made a promise to Mary," he finally said, with a rueful smile on his face

As John put on his coat, Sherlock walked over to the window and looked out into the darkening evening. "Shall I call you the next time I have a case that might interest you?"

With a smile that could outshine the sun, John replied, "Oh God, yes."

Coat on, bag in hand, John turned to leave.

"John, that thing you said about home? I…" Looking all around the room, anywhere but at John, Sherlock swallowed several times before he could speak. "All I wanted these past three years was to return home, to Baker Street and you."

After not reacting for an eternal moment, John strode over to his best friend. He clutched Sherlock to him in a one-armed hug. "I'll text you to let you know that I got to the flat safely, yeah?"

Sherlock hummed in response. Despite his lack of respect for other's personal space and the deep bond that he'd always felt with John, Sherlock had never embraced him. He tentatively placed his arms around John's shoulders and felt a tighter hug in return. Before letting go, Sherlock nuzzled John's hair and breathed in the aroma of his friend. Tea, antiseptic, a spicy warmth. Sherlock smiled, awash in memories of their past adventures.

"Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John."

Resisting the temptation to watch John through the window, Sherlock returned to his seat at the table. Instead of feeling unsettled by the emotions of the evening, his mind was unexpectedly clear. He closed his eyes to enjoy the sensation. He felt lighter, buoyed by the opportunity to reconnect with John, his best friend still. For the first time in three years, he experienced hope.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

"Oh!"

Finally seeing the pattern in the clues in front of him, Sherlock dove into his work, still surrounded by the lingering scent of home.


End file.
